Last Man in Tower - Aravind Adiga [99]
“That’s clever,” Ajwani said. “Very clever. The police can’t do a thing to you.”
Shanmugham dropped the coconut onto the pile; then he gave the basket a kick. “Always use your brains, the boss says.”
The nuts trembled together.
“There was once a Muslim man in a chawl, a Khan. This fellow fancied himself tough. Boss made him an offer to leave. Generous offer. ‘I have no pity for a greedy man,’ Boss said. I paid a boy to sit on the steps of a building opposite and watch this Khan. That was all. Just watch him. This Khan who would not have left if threatened by a gang of goondas signed and left the building within a week.”
Ajwani rubbed his hands together.
“You’re a genius at this, Mr. Shanmugham.”
“It can’t always be brains, though. Sometimes, you just have to ….”
Picking up the curved black knife that lay on the coconuts, Shanmugham stuck it into a green nut. Ajwani shivered.
“Tell me. Please. What have you done? Broken a leg?” He dropped his voice. “Killed a man?”
Shanmugham looked at the black knife.
“Just a year ago. A project in Sion. One old man kept saying no, no. We kept offering money, and it was always no, no. Boss was getting angry.”
“So?” Ajwani came as close as he could.
So, in a bolt of rage and calculation, six-foot-two-inch-tall Shanmugham ran up the stairs of the building, kicked open a door, grabbed something that was playing backgammon with its grandson, shoved its head out of a window, saying: Sign, mother-fucker.
“You really did that?” Ajwani stared at the black knife.
Shanmugham nodded. He took the knife out of the coconut. “The old man signed on the spot. I was scared, I tell you that. I thought I might go to jail. But … the truth is, even if they say no, deep down”—he pointed the knife at Ajwani—“they want money. Once you make them sign, they’re grateful to you. Never go to the police. So all I’m doing is making them aware of their own inner intentions.”
He threw the knife back into the pile of coconuts.
Ajwani gazed in admiration at Shanmugham’s hands. “What else have you done for Mr. Shah?”
“Anything he wants. The call can come any time, day or night. You have to be ready.”
He told Ajwani of the time a famous politician had phoned the Confidence office, and quoted a figure, in cash, that would have to be transported that evening to his election headquarters. Shah and Shanmugham had driven to a warehouse in Parel where five-hundred-rupee notes were counted by machines, tied into bricks, and loaded into an SUV—the cash, filling the vehicle’s front and back seats, was covered with a white bedsheet. Shanmugham, with no more than a hundred and seventy-five rupees for food and drink, drove the SUV across the state border, to the politician’s henchmen. Safely delivered. The politician won the election.
“I could have been like you. An action man.” Ajwani gouged out his lower lip and shook his head. “If I had met a man like Mr. Shah in time. Instead, I’m …
“But tell me.” He tapped the Tamilian’s forearm. “There must be girls in your business. Pretty girls. Dance bar girls?”
“I’m a married man,” Shanmugham said. “My wife would cut my throat.”
Which made them both laugh.
The broker got up from the cot. “Let’s finish this phone call business now.”
“Not from your phone—” Shanmugham produced a small red mobile phone. “This one has a SIM card that they can’t trace.”
He threw it to the broker.
“Old man,” Ajwani said into the phone. “Old man, are you there? Pick up the phone, old man ….” He shook his head and gave the mobile back.
Shanmugham got up from the cot, smacking dust off his trousers.
“That’s it for phone calls.”
“What happens next?” the broker asked, as they left the office through a back door. “Are you going to send boys to break wood outside